


The Space In Which We're Allowed To Exist

by ravinilla



Category: VIXX
Genre: Depersonalization, Depression, Dissociation, Mental Breakdown, Vent Writing, i don't think ravi actually deals with any of this so don't worry, the writer is projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 01:59:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13494420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravinilla/pseuds/ravinilla
Summary: Exhaustion and the rug.





	The Space In Which We're Allowed To Exist

It's here again. Sweeping over him like the tide washing against the rocks. His head is the first to drop—back, awkward angle since the chair has high support, then his arms follow. They rest still on the smooth desk top, then slide off with his skin squeaking against the surface. They fall onto the arm rests, but then the weight is too much—they fall to the side. His body comes last, slumping, sliding a little, his legs falling whatever way gravity takes them.

Exhaustion. Heavier than a thousand planets. The burden of a thousand Adonis. Unabashed exhaustion.

The position is not comfortable despite him having fallen asleep in the very same chair multiple times. Mostly, he never noticed and his head would bob and bob and bob, until his neck might break and he would mutter himself awake. Bleary, bright screen, eyelids heavy, eyes unfocused. Exhaustion.

He wants to slide out of his chair but there's not much space. Swiveling around would be a chore too, but his back is going to ache. The couch is right there, but it seems so damn far away. He's too drained for this. Too worn. Too old.

"m'Not old at all..." he mumbles to himself, and there's a lump forming in his throat, forming around noises restrained. Moving is so difficult.

His dog isn't here. He's been working so much lately that taking care of him has been a trial, and it hurts. He loves his dog, such a bright spot in his life, a good reason to keep going. Excitable, pudgy, stumpy dog with an absolutely fucking ridiculous name, and god, he loves him so much. His sister is taking care of him. He owes her yet another favor to add to the twenty-plus he already does.

His body weight shifts and the chair swivels on its own. His knees knock into the insides of his desk, but he can't really feel it. Depersonalization, dissociation, but the weight is crushing. The chair is cramped and his legs are just too long.

When the chair is angled sufficiently, he sort of just... slides off. Gravity takes his body down, unforgiving, and he crumples to the gray, threaded rug. It's so frayed, but it's soft and there's probably a permanent imprint of his body there. He'd find it if he looked long enough.

In this moment, he doesn't know how his body naturally unravels to spread across the rug. He's too big and his feet hit the base of his chair. It doesn't budge but digs into the side of his calf after his foot slides past it.

The perspective is different on the floor. He's so big that he can step into a room and make it smaller—Sanghyuk can do even more than that. But he's such a large person that he rarely ever feels... small. That's how it is right now though: He is so small and inconsequential that this room feels like his entire world.

...Isn't it actually, though?

He'd thought the same about his old studio—"studio," because that cramped broom closet could hardly be considered a studio. Still, in that room he'd built himself and built irreplaceable, steadfast parts of his group, and back then, it _had_ been his entire world.

This is his entire world in a different way though: It is bearing down on him, the walls closing in, the ceiling so close and yet so impossibly far at the same time. It's weird to reach his hand up and not be able to touch it for once.

"I'm tired." he says aloud, and it sounds weird and foreign. His voice is craggy and hoarse, like he'd been screaming for hours on end and then completely forgot how to speak after that.

The floor is uncomfortable and the rug doesn't provide much help despite how soft it is to the touch. His spine isn't aligned properly and his neck feels unsupported. His feet are out-turned and his thumbnails face the upwards. The tassels of the rug tickle at his bare skin—his arms, his ankles, the small of his back where his shirt rode upwards—but it's not a grounding touch. If anything, it only serves to suffocate him, like the fabric with get longer and then curl around his limbs. Gravity is much stronger on the floor.

He feels like he could sink any moment. Everything is so heavy. His chest heaves, lungs stretching for oxygen that the small, dense star sitting on him will hardly allow. Even breathing is difficult, so maybe he just shouldn't try so damn hard.

His presses his lips into a thin, taut line, but he can hear his jaw protest in his ears so he stops. His lips part and he exhales forcefully. Something wet gathers at the corners of his eyes. It spills over, but his voice doesn't. It runs down the sides of his cheeks, to his sideburns, and uncomfortably towards his ear canal. An annoyance he can't be bothered to deal with.

These are those odd moments that don't exist in the light of day. He can't recall a time they ever did, and the idea that they could was terrifying. This side of him shouldn't be seen, shouldn't be allowed outside of these walls. He can't in the practice room, there are cameras; he can't in his bedroom, Sanghyuk is right across from him; he can't in the dorm, the others are constantly around and will worry.

"I'm so tired." he says again, and the room eats the words up until they're a hollow echo that never quite existed at all.

So there is only him and these walls, the fray of the rug, the tug that wants his bones to meld with the earth, and these small moments that only live between sleep and the light of day.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think Wonsik actually goes through something like this, so don't be upset.


End file.
